


I can't care 'bout anything but you

by zjofierose



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Diplomacy, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, Mission Related, Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Keith (Voltron), Shiro is a little oblivious, and there was only one bed, season 8 we don't know her
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-06
Updated: 2020-01-06
Packaged: 2021-02-22 05:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22143880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjofierose/pseuds/zjofierose
Summary: When Keith and Shiro are sent to visit a nearby planet for Diplomacy Reasons, Keith reacts badly to having to share one (small) bed with Shiro - but why?
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 261
Collections: Ace Pilot Exchange 2019





	I can't care 'bout anything but you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thechaoscryptid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thechaoscryptid/gifts).



> my ace pilot holiday gift for @aryagraceling - hope you like it! Sorry it's so late!!! Happy Holidays!! 
> 
> many many thanks as always to @quazydellasue for poking at it with a stick until all the commas were in the right places. <3

“Oh,” Keith says as they cross into the room, his voice tight, and Shiro turns to look at Keith in confusion. He glances back at the room in front of them again. It’s small, but very well appointed. As befitting their stations as the Leader of Voltron and Captain of the Atlas, it’s nicely decorated and welcoming. 

Shiro fails to see the problem.

Shiro turns back to Keith, curious. “What’s wrong?”

Keith’s face does something complicated, something that Shiro would have known how to interpret ten years ago when Keith was that headstrong and preternaturally gifted fifteen year old who dogged his every step. Now, on Keith’s adult face, it’s more opaque, and Shiro feels wrongfooted, like he’s missing something in a way that never used to be true between them.

“There’s only one bed,” Keith points out, like Shiro should have noticed this. 

Shiro had, in fact, noticed, but he hadn’t thought it mattered. “We’ve shared before?” he says, a question in his voice, and his heart sinks as Keith pinches the bridge of his nose. Have things really fallen so far between them since he’s left Voltron, since Keith’s been with the Blades and Shiro’s been with Atlas? “I can go talk to them, if you’re uncomfortable, but…”

“No, no,” Keith says, and he sounds defeated. “They assumed we’re… together… and not being part of a bonded set is unheard of for adults of the species here. If we try to correct them now, we’ll look dishonest, and also lose status and authority in their eyes.”

Shiro says nothing. Everything Keith says is true; when they’d stepped out of their ships dressed in their complementary uniforms and striding forward in unison, the Hr’tk had assumed their bonded status, and Shiro hadn’t bothered to correct them. After all, humans had been assuming the same of the two of them for years, and denying it always made Shiro feel like he was casting Keith off, like he was saying he wouldn’t  _ want _ to have Keith be his, like the bond they do share is somehow lesser on account of its non-sexual nature.

And so today he hadn’t said anything, had just wrapped an arm around Keith’s shoulders like always, and smiled and nodded his way through the welcoming greetings and banquet and official introductions. By the time he’d caught the pinched look on Keith’s face, it was too late to say a word, and Shiro’s heart had fallen like a rock to settle at the bottom of his stomach and stick there. 

“I’m sorry,” Shiro says, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

Keith rolls his eyes. “I know you didn’t, Shiro,” he says, and there’s something fond in his voice even now. Shiro breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe things between them aren’t so bad after all. “It’s okay. Like you said, we’ve shared before. And we’re only here three days.”

“Yeah.” 

Shiro undresses efficiently, stripping himself to his briefs and his undershirt and sitting down on the side of the admittedly narrow bed to power down the Altean arm and set it beside him on the floor. The Hr’tk are taller and leaner than humans or Galrans - it’s going to be a tight fit. He looks up to find Keith watching him, a strangled expression on his face before he looks quickly away.

Shiro resists the urge to sigh. He doesn’t know what’s wrong with Keith, but he doesn’t like feeling off like this. They’ve gone through bumpy moments in their friendship like this a few times - when he’d first announced his impending departure for Kerberos; when he’d first been on the Castleship and still recovering from captivity; after he’d died and been resurrected and nearly managed to kill Keith - they’ve worked through them all. They’ll work through this, he decides, and lies down, pressing close to the side of the bed so Keith has space to crawl in beside him. 

It’ll be fine.

\--

The next day is… challenging. Shiro wakes early to an empty bed, his back stiff and his brain muzzy. Keith reappears while Shiro’s bathing in the too-small cleansing cube, struggling to not bump the door open with his elbows as he washes his hair. Keith is terse and tired, his face drawn like he hasn’t slept, and Shiro doesn’t think it’s likely that he looks much better himself. 

Breakfast is not bad-tasting, but it looks like green-grey lumpy gruel, which means that as much as Shiro knows it’s fine, he has to work to make himself put it willingly in his mouth. Further, it turns out that the Hr’tk are a demonstrative species, and Shiro could kick himself for having thought it would be fine to just go along with the charade that he and Keith are lifemates. He hadn’t thought about the implications, about what it would mean for how they would be expected and encouraged to behave.

As it was explained in the mission briefs, on the Hr’tk homeworld lifemates are chosen via complex divination ritual and courtship immediately upon coming of age. Mated groups of two to four will then spend months living together and getting to know their bond before re-emerging, fully matured, into Hr’tk society. As a result, not only are all adult Hr’tk in paired (or triad or quad) relationships, the entire society is constructed around the public display and recognition of these bonds, which are considered foundational to society. 

All of this is to say that Keith is obligated to spend first breakfast and then the subsequent diplomatic meeting in Shiro’s lap, and while Shiro trusts that Keith doesn’t  _ actually _ hate him, it may be a near thing after this particular trip.

The afternoon goes a little more easily - the diplomatic party takes them on a tour of the extensive gardens surrounding the Hr’tk diplomacy palace, and, while they are expected to stay close to each other, the Hr’tk custom of interlinked tails clearly does not apply, so they have a little more personal space. 

Really, if it weren’t for how well Shiro knows him, he’d never think that Keith was at all uncomfortable with any of this. It’s a testament to how Keith’s grown that his only tell is the leashed tension that thrums through his lean muscles, and Shiro is proud, so proud of him. 

He’d like to tell Keith how proud he is, how much he admires the man, the leader Keith has become; he wants to bury Keith in well-earned praise, but he doesn’t think it’d be welcomed. Instead, Shiro nods and smiles at appropriate intervals, and eventually turns the conversation back to the proceedings at hand, the points of negotiation, and the treaty signing scheduled for the day after tomorrow. 

Keith sighs faintly as they head back to the palace, and Shiro sets a comforting hand on his shoulder, unprepared for how Keith flinches away. He withdraws immediately, refusing to let the hurt show on his face, but it doesn’t matter, because Keith doesn’t turn to see it. 

\--

By the time they’ve made it through the afternoon talks (Keith does not have to sit on Shiro’s lap, but they do have to share an overly small loveseat equivalent for the duration), through dinner (feeding each other is a Hr’tk custom), and the post-dinner entertainment (an introduction to Hr’tk courtship rituals, via live performance), Shiro is exhausted, tense, and more stimulated than he’d care to admit. 

He waits till the door shuts behind them, then flops out on the bed, sighing hard as his back hits the mattress.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Keith, staring at the ceiling. “I had no idea they’d be like this.”

“It’s okay, Shiro, you don’t have to keep apologizing.” Keith’s voice is tired, and Shiro bites his lip to resist apologizing yet again. Shiro can hear him stripping off his boots and jacket, then dropping to the floor to push himself through sets of calisthenics at a brutal pace. God. Shiro should do that too, but he really, really doesn’t want to. He lets his limbs sprawl out across the bed and his eyes close. He’ll get up and do it in a minute. 

\--

He wakes abruptly in the middle of the night, still dressed, still sprawled out across the bed. The lights are off, and it takes his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness of the room around him. 

Shiro sits up, taking his bearings. It’s either very late or very early, the diplomatic palace quiet around them. The bed to either side of him is empty, but he can hear Keith’s soft breathing somewhere in the room, so he swings his feet carefully to the floor and stands. 

There’s a dark shape off to the side, curled on the floor in a tight ball, and Shiro’s heart hurts to see it. It’s chilly on the floor, and why Keith wouldn’t just wake him up or shove him over like he would have at any other point in their long friendship, Shiro can’t figure out, but either way, this can’t stand. 

Shiro strips out of his uniform and brushes his teeth, Keith apparently still relaxed enough in Shiro’s presence to not hear the sounds of him rustling around as any kind of threat. When he finishes, he comes over to where Keith’s curled into the corner, breathing deep with sleep. He looks down at him for a long moment, then crouches and lifts Keith carefully into his arms. 

“Sh’ro?” Keith asks faintly, still half asleep as Shiro stands up, Keith’s lean bulk a welcome burden cradled against his chest.

“Shh,” Shiro says, “it’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Keith hums something indecipherable under his breath and tucks his face into Shiro’s neck, and Shiro wants to cry. It’s the first time since they landed that Keith has sought him out, has responded to him with anything like his usual affection, and Shiro has missed it so much.

Shiro lays him on the bed, holding Keith to him with one arm as he pulls the blankets out of the way with the other. He climbs in after, careful to keep his distance, but it’s a futile effort: Keith promptly rolls over and wraps his arms around Shiro’s waist and arm, clutching close and bonking his forehead into Shiro’s shoulder. 

From how Keith’s been acting, Shiro’s pretty sure he wouldn’t want to be doing this, but Shiro is weak, and besides, Keith needs his sleep. 

He doesn’t push Keith off.

\--

Shiro wakes in the morning alone again, Keith gone from the room entirely this time. He bathes and dresses, and opens the door to find Keith fully clothed and ready for the day, sitting on the floor just outside their room.

“Morning,” Shiro says cautiously, and Keith just nods, already jumping to his feet and heading down the hall.

\--

The second day is slightly better, if only because they spend most of it in meetings, and it’s a testament to how tense and frosty Keith’s behavior is that Shiro would prefer meetings to spending time with him. They’re still forced to share a very small joint seat, and Shiro feeds Keith lunch with his fingers, as do the mates of every other diplomat at the table, but he keeps his touch perfunctory and his glance turned away.

It seems to be enough, and there’s really nothing else he can do. 

Eventually the negotiations are completed and they are escorted away to prepare for the evening meal. Shiro exhales a sigh of relief: one more night, and then they can head back to their ships and get back to normal.

It’s very little relief at all, if he’s honest - “normal” will mean he barely sees Keith; “normal” means just more work, more paperwork, more staff meetings and intern briefings and less of everything he really cares about. 

When they return to the room, they find Hr’tk evening wear laid out for them on the bed, shades of black and grey for Shiro, deep reds and purples for Keith. The garments are… substantially  _ less _ than their dress uniforms, and Shiro feels Keith’s long-suffering sigh in his bones.

Still, there’s little to do but roll with it; they are diplomats, after all, at least in this instance. Donning cultural dress is part of the gig, so Shiro strips down and eyes the pieces of sheer fabric suspiciously before gamely beginning to attach them to his body.

When all’s said and done, Shiro feels more like a somewhat over-decorated lampshade than the commander of a giant space robot. There’s a large fabric crest for his head, from which thick veils descend, wrapping around his face and shoulders but ending just above his armpits. His chest and arms are bare, and the pantaloons provided tie at the waist and the ankle, but are open on the side from shin to hip. Everything flutters when he walks, and Shiro thanks his lucky stars that the weather on Hr’tk is set to a default of “balmy,” because otherwise he’d be freezing his buns off.

He straightens the crest one last time, then turns his attention to Keith.

It’s a mistake. Shiro nearly chokes on his own tongue at the sight of Keith clothed in an outfit similar to Shiro’s own, face hidden by a deep crimson veil save for his shining eyes, chest and abs and dent of his hips exposed in a low-slung hip-pant that, like Shiro’s, bares nearly all of his leg when he moves. 

The look in Keith’s eyes tell Shiro in no uncertain terms that he will be murdered with great prejudice if he so much as raises an eyebrow at Keith in his new outfit, so Shiro simply extends an elbow with all the dignity he can muster, and guides them out the door.

\--

Dinner is an ordeal. 

The lights are turned down low, and Shiro and Keith are sprawled on a single large cushion, forced to hand-feed each other dish after dish of delicacies while Hr’tk artists perform sensual dances and oratorios on a low stage in the center of the room. 

If it weren’t completely against both of their wills, it’d be incredibly romantic, but Shiro forces himself to put that thought away, because everything Keith has done these past two days says that not only would he never be interested in Shiro in that way, but that Shiro’s lucky to still count him as a friend, and will be luckier still if he can continue to do so after this trip is over. 

He tries to relax, he does, and he even tries to help Keith chill out a little by whispering semi-ridiculous commentary into his ear, but it’s of little use when the couples and groups all around them are busy petting, stroking, and caressing each other as the evening winds on. 

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, the performances cease.  _ At last _ , Shiro thinks, carefully unwinding his hand from the back of Keith’s hair where he’d settled it an hour ago in an attempt to calm Keith and keep him from bolting. 

“Honored guests,” a Hr’tk says in his ear, and Shiro jumps. “Would you grace us with a display of the closeness of your union?”

Keith sucks in air beside him, eyes wide, and Shiro only just manages to keep a straight face. 

“It is not the custom of our people to display such actions publicly, honored one,” he tells them politely but firmly, and the Hr’tk frowns. 

“Surely there is  _ some _ display which you can make that will show the depth of your bond,” it says, and Shiro begins to shake his head and refuse again when Keith pipes up from beside him, voice sharp and ready.

“Come on, Shiro,” he says, leaping lightly to his feet, harem pants be damned, and holding out his hand to Shiro to pull him up. “Let’s spar.”

It’s a clever idea, and Shiro’s nodding his acquiescence before he can second guess it, rising to his feet and taking Keith’s offered grasp. 

Keith pulls them to the middle of the small stage and falls easily into a defensive crouch. Shiro takes a long inhale, then lets his exhale push him into a first stance. He smiles. 

This, if nothing else, is familiar. The reach of Keith’s arms as they swing for him, the quickness of Keith’s kick. The pounding of Shiro’s pulse in his ears as he counters, ducking under Keith’s arm and grabbing for his shoulders, the slip of fabric under his fingers as Keith dances just out of reach. 

It’s a rhythm they’ve been moving to for over a decade now; thrust and parry, reach and dodge. They know each other’s moves, yes, but they’re well-matched, and there’s always an element of  _ what now _ and  _ what if _ , and it’s never clear until it’s finished which of them will come out on top. 

The heat of Keith’s bare skin against his hands startles Shiro, and he nearly pays for it with a knee to the face. It’s been a long time since they grappled shirtless: Shiro’s no fool, and he knows how shirtless wrestling matches can turn into pants-less wrestling matches among opponents who find each other attractive, and while he doesn’t advertise it, he’s not going to deny that he finds Keith attractive, has for years. Keith was always stunning in his own way, but the power and grace age has brought him have transformed him from intense and lovely to transcendently beautiful.

Shiro loses his headdress first, and is honestly happy to kick it out of his way, down now to just the loose pants. They flap distractingly, but at least they’re a garment he’s used to wearing, unlike a veil, and it gives him the advantage when Keith’s momentarily caught by an unfortunate flutter of gauze to the face. 

Anyone else, Shiro thinks, would not have moved fast enough to take advantage of Keith’s tiny slip, but Shiro  _ knows _ him, knows his instincts, and when Keith untangles himself with a sharp jab, Shiro is there, locking their limbs together and bearing Keith to the floor with his own body.

“Yield,” Shiro whispers, one arm locking Keith’s wrists to the floor as he holds his weight on Keith’s knee joints and torso in such a way that he can’t flip himself free. Shiro doesn’t realize quite how compromising a position it actually is until Keith wriggles beneath him, making Shiro catch his breath abruptly at the sensation of all of Keith’s heated and heaving chest and belly moving against his own. 

“ _ Yield _ ,” Shiro hisses through his teeth, struggling not to move against Keith’s body, which is splayed below him and nearly vibrating with tension. He can hear the crowd murmuring approvingly around them, and suddenly wants nothing more than to abandon this stage and run away, disappear into the night until he has literally and metaphorically calmed down. 

It’s Keith who takes the initiative, though, baring pointed teeth and snarling viciously at Shiro, eyes shot yellow and glowing in the dim room before he  _ throws _ Shiro off him and takes off at a run.

Shiro gapes for a long moment, his tailbone sore where it had hit the stage and bounced, before he gathers his wits and staggers to his feet. One of the diplomats hands him his abandoned headdress, and Shiro takes it politely, mumbling incoherent excuses as he heads directly for the door. Fortunately, the crowd seems to take it as a given that he will follow Keith, no matter how premature or surprising their exit, and Shiro takes it as the boon that it is, slipping out and hustling the last of the distance to their room.

\--

When he gets to their room, he opens the door and nearly runs into Keith coming out of it, bag packed and over his shoulder. 

“Keith,” Shiro sets a palm in the center of Keith’s chest and holds it there, feeling the tension in the way Keith holds himself, feeling the rabbit-running pulse of his heart. “ _ Keith _ , what…”

“Shiro, I…” Keith’s eyes flash again, but Shiro holds his ground, and all of a sudden Keith slumps against him like his strings have been cut.

“Keith,” Shiro pleads, “what’s wrong? What have I done?” He moves his hands up to Keith’s shoulders, wrapping them around Keith’s arms like it would hurt to let go. 

“Nothing, Shiro, I just…” Keith laughs, and it’s a bitter, brittle sound that breaks Shiro’s heart. “I just… there’s only one  _ fucking _ bed.”

“I don’t understand,” Shiro tells him, and Keith just nods resignedly.

“Of course you don’t. Why would you? Shiro,” Keith sighs. “Imagine that a sorcerer comes to you and offers you everything you could ever want, but in order to have it, you have to pretend not to want it at all.”

“...what?”

“ _ Shiro _ ,” and great, Shiro thinks, now Keith’s just flat-out exasperated, “there’s one. Fucking. Bed.”

Shiro throws up his hands. “Yes! I heard you! One bed! So what?”

Keith shoves at him then, pushing hard at Shiro’s chest with a look of such betrayal on his face that Shiro can’t stand it. 

“How can you be so oblivious,  _ fuck _ , Shiro,” Keith takes a deep breath, “I never wanted to say this, but, you know what? Fuck it. I’m in love with you. So, so, helplessly and hopelessly in love with you. And to be here, with you, like  _ this… _ ” he takes a shuddering breath, “to pretend to be yours, to have you pretend to be mine… and yet, to  _ know _ it’s all a fake…”

He breaks off and looks away, no longer fighting Shiro’s grip, but holding himself like a wounded man, taking any point of contact as support. 

Shiro feels like his brain has locked up. “You don’t…” he starts, then clears his throat. “You don’t want to share a bed with me, because you’re… attracted to me.”

“Yes,” Keith’s voice is little more than a hurt rasp, “ _ yeah _ , Shiro, I’m attracted to you. I’m attracted to everything  _ about _ you, and normally it’s fine, I can just ignore it, but this…” he gestures furiously at the small bed. “When I wake up to being held by you, and I can’t tell if it’s really a dream or not, Shiro… it’s just too hard.”

“So,” Shiro says, heart breaking at the glimmer in Keith’s still-yellowed eyes, a visible sign of his distress. “If I were also attracted to you…”

“Don’t give me a pity fuck,” Keith says fiercely, pushing again at Shiro’s hold, “I don’t want that, least of all from you.”

“Nothing pity about it,” Shiro says flatly, “And I’m not attracted to you. I’m in  _ love _ with you.”

Shiro watches in real time as Keith’s brain fails to compute, and decides to speed the process along with some good old-fashioned manual rebooting via leaning forward and pressing their mouths together. 

The spark it lights between them is instantaneous, and suddenly it’s like they’re back on the stage again, wrapped up in each other’s limbs and grappling for purchase. Shiro drags them the foot and a half to the bed and topples Keith onto it, pinning him to the mattress with his bulk and biting hard into Keith’s neck. 

“Tell me you want this,” he grits out, and Keith laughs a little hysterically beneath him, thrusting his hips up to smack into Shiro’s own. “Fuck,  _ Keith _ .”

“I want this,” Keith’s voice is as rough as the fingers he runs through Shiro’s hair. “God, Shiro, I  _ want _ this.”

Shiro nods frantically, pressing his mouth to Keith’s body over and over, neck and shoulder and chest and hand as Keith clutches at his shoulders and throws his head back to moan. He gains a whole new appreciation for the swaths of fabric masquerading as “pants” when he realizes that he can simply slide a hand in one slit and have full access to Keith’s  _ everything _ , and he nearly comes right then and there as Keith spreads his knees wide and cradles Shiro in the curve of his hips.

“Keith,” Shiro manages, dropping his head to Keith’s shoulder, kissing at his chin, “ _ Keith _ .”

“Yeah,” Keith sounds wrecked, and it goes straight to Shiro’s aching dick, “yeah, Shiro, come on.”

It should be no surprise, Shiro thinks later, that they move as well together in this as in anything else, because it takes less than a minute of Shiro’s mouth on Keith’s body, his hand wrapped tight around Keith’s cock under the loose fabric of the Hr’tkan style of pant, before Keith is shaking apart beneath him. Shiro follows a breath behind, his own release seeping into his waistband as Keith’s knees clamp hard around him.

The room is filled with the sound of their ragged breathing, and Shiro lets himself slump, boneless, across Keith’s body, pressing him to the bed and hiding his face in Keith’s collar bone. One of Keith’s hands pets idly up and down the length of his spine, and if Shiro could purr, he would.

“Want me to get off, or scoot over?” he asks after a few moments, but Keith just shakes his head and clutches at Shiro harder.

“No,” he says, low and lovely, “don’t go. There’s plenty of room. Just stay right here.”


End file.
